Try Again Tomorrow
by cherryredxx
Summary: The light is always better than the dark. Muggle!AU. Written for QLFC.


A/N: This is written for QLFC, Round 6. My genre for this round is a Muggle!AU, and my prompts are: 'easier,' 'morbid.' I had a third prompt, but unfortunately, I could not find a good way to work it in.

This is not your typical Muggle!AU, but I got the idea for this story from a Writer's Digest creative writing prompt, and I thought it sounded interesting. I hope you enjoy!

...

You open your eyes.

Everything around you is bright white, and your eyes have to fight to remain open. The rooms smells medicinal – too clean, too pure, too sterile. It makes you uncomfortable, and you can feel yourself start to squirm.

But that's a problem, too, isn't it?

Your arms are flush against your sides. Your legs are pressed together. You can tell you're lying down in a bed, but you're crushed. Restrained. You start to panic, thrashing about back and forth in the bed, but you're not going anywhere. You are barely moving at all.

It suddenly occurs to you how uncomfortably warm you feel. There is something covering your body so tightly that you're starting to feel suffocated. It is _so hot_ in there, and the more you struggle to remove whatever is surrounding your body in warmth, the hotter you feel. You can't understand why – _why_ can't you get the bloody thing off?

Your struggling continues. You are still kicking and squirming and fighting, but you can't move. You can't _fucking_ move. You start to scream in frustration because you just don't know what else to do.

A door opens and you can hear several people entering the room. The shuffling of footsteps gets louder, but you can't stop trying to escape your confines. You don't understand what's going on – you don't _want_ to know what has happened – you just want to be let go. You want them to let you go!

Something sharp is pressed against your arm. You feel yourself growing dizzier and dizzier and dizzier and the world fades away into blackness.

Calmness engulfes you for the moment.

...

Your eyes open again, and the room is the same. Small, white, sterile. You're still being covered by something hot, you're still unable to move. You keep trying to tug your leg away from whatever it is that is restraining you, and you continue to try to scratch the itch on your nose, but all of this is without success.

You don't know where you are.

You don't know why you're here.

You're scared.

Even though on the inside you are more tense than ever, you will your body to relax. It's the only way for you to stop feeling so helpless. It's the only thing you can make yourself do.

...

There's a light.

You can feel someone physically opening your eye, and you begin to look around as you attempt to follow the light. It's comforting, you decide, because at the very least you know that something is happening around you. The light is always better than the dark.

"She's responsive," you hear, and you assume whoever is speaking is referring to you. "Her eyes are responding to the light."

A wave of hope flows through you. Their voices sound positive. Your eyes remain open even after the light is gone. You can see the vague, blurry shape of a person in front of you, but you don't think whoever is there is someone that you know.

"Can you hear me?" the person says, and it occurs to you that this is a man speaking. He is wearing glasses, and his clothes are white like the rest of the room.

You open your mouth to speak, finding regretfully that it was a struggle just to do that. You close your mouth and try again. And again and again and again, but somehow you can't make the words happen. You can't answer the question. Yes, you can hear him. _Yes, I can hear you!_ you try to say, but nothing comes out.

"We'll try again tomorrow," he says.

A stab of disappointment pierces through your heart, but you try not to get too disheartened. Your eyes were responsive. You responded to the light. You can hear him! Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow, you will speak.

You lay still, willing your body to relax even though your situation makes you so tense. You don't know where you are or why you're there, but you know that you're alive.

You stop fighting because you know it's easier.

...

"Can you hear me?" he says.

"Y – y – yes."

"Do you know who you are?"

"Yes," you say, and this time a little more clearly.

You can see him smile at your progress. "What is your name?"

You open your mouth to speak, only to find that your answer involves too many words, too many syllables, too many sounds. But you continue to try. The words are stirring at the back of your throat. You know the answer to this one.

"Gi – i – i -nny," you say, struggling over the sounds. But you say it. You tell him who you are.

He doesn't seem to like this answer. His whole face frowns, his forehead crinkling with disappointment. He turns to another person in the room. "She still thinks her name is Ginny," he says. "Should we try again tomorrow?"

You want to cry out. You don't understand. You told him who you were! Why is he saying that it's wrong?

"We'll come back tomorrow," he tells you, and you nod your compliance. But you don't quite like the way he speaks to you. Like a petulant child, incapable of understanding.

You do understand. _He_ is the one who is wrong.

...

"Do you know who you are?" he asks again the next day.

"Yes," you say, proud of yourself how easily you say the word on your first attempt. You wonder why speaking has become so difficult for you, but you don't bother wasting your precious time asking him such silly questions. You know he will only stay with you until you answer him incorrectly.

"Do you know where you are?" he asks.

You don't expect this question, but you do know the answer. "No," you say, and you find yourself happy that you were able to speak without problem.

"You're in the hospital," he says slowly. "Do you know why?"

Now you're becoming frustrated. "No!"

"Do you know who you are?"

"Yes!"

"What is your name?"

"Ginny Weasley!" you exclaim, and you're so sure he'll be thrilled at your speech.

His brow furrows again. His face scrunches into a frown again. "You still don't know who you are," he says quietly, and you find that you don't know exactly if he is speaking to you or to himself. He stares at you openly with a mix of morbid curiosity and disappointment. "We'll try again tomorrow."

You realize how much you hate it when he says that.

..

"Do you know who you are?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why you're here?"

"No."

"What is the last thing that you remember?"

You pause for a moment, closing your eyes as you think back to the last thing you remember. You remember the War, the battle of Hogwarts, Harry's victory. You remember getting married. You remember playing Quidditch professionally, then retiring early to have three children.

It takes you a moment to realize that you are thinking out loud.

He shakes his head solemnly.

He doesn't even tell you that he'll try again tomorrow.

...

Days go by. At least, you think there are days. You notice when the room gets lighter and darker. You notice when people come into the room and poke you and prod you and check to make sure that you are alive. But no one speaks. You have disappointed them. You have disappointed everyone.

He does come back, though. He sits beside your bed, and he flashes the light in your eyes. He doesn't seem as thrilled that you are responsive.

"Do you know why you are here?" he asks.

"No!" you exclaim, and you feel yourself getting more and more frustrated that he keeps asking you these same questions over and over and over.

"What is the last thing you remember?"

You sigh and you begin to tense. The weight of whatever is covering you feels like it's getting warmer and warmer. You struggle. You struggle more. You can feel the sweat beading along your forehead.

"Is this St. Mungo's?" you ask.

And the way he leaves wordlessly tells you that this was definitely the wrong question to ask.

...

There is someone in the room, but it isn't him. It isn't the man who talks and then leaves, who thinks every answer you give is wrong. It frustrates you because you know you are telling the truth. You are telling him everything he wants to know, but he doesn't like the answers.

It's a woman who is beside your bed. You have seen her many times before. She seems nice enough. She is the one who washes you and brushes your hair, and you decide that if anyone is going to tell the truth, it will be her.

"Where am I?"

She seems startled. You have never spoken to her before. "You're in a hospital, dear."

Somehow, this doesn't surprise you, and you realize that she must be a nurse. You wonder why the man didn't tell you that you were right about being in St. Mungo's. "Who am I?"

"You don't know who you are?" she asks, her voice full of concern, although she doesnt sound surprised.

"What is my name?" you ask again.

The woman bites her lip and holds up a finger, telling you that she needs a moment. You hear her rustling about, but then she comes back, and this time she sits on the edge of the bed. You like the familiarity of it. You like that she is treating you like a person.

"Your name is Gina Woods."

You feel so confused. Your name is Ginny Weasley!

But you don't say this. You swallow the words back.

"Why am I here?"

She bites her lips. "You have had some severe trauma," she says. "And as a result, you have been having some powerful hallucinations and causing yourself harm. That's why you are in a straitjacket."

You close your eyes. This doesn't make any sense. "Am I at St. Mungo's?"

"St. What?" she asks, honestly sounding confused.

And then it occurs to you. "Are you a Muggle?"

"I beg your pardon..."

"Can you do magic?" you ask.

"I'm sorry," she says, standing up and immediately rushing towards the door.

You don't understand what you did wrong.

...

"Do you know who you are?"

"No."

He looks down his nose dispprovingly. This is the first time you have seen him in ages. You haven't seen anyone, and maybe it is all in your head, but you feel like your restraints have gotten just a little bit tighter.

"Do you know your name?"

You open your mouth to speak. "Gi -" you begin, only to cut yourself off. You take a deep breath. "Gina Woods," you say, and you hate the way that name sounds coming from your mouth. It isn't your name, but you lie and you tell him it is anyway.

His eyes brighten for a split second. "Do you know why you're here?"

"I've been hallucinating," you say automatically, even though you don't believe it.

He smiles down at you. "That's excellent, Gina," he says. "You're making great progress."

You don't smile back, and when he leaves the room, you begin to cry.

Nothing makes sense anymore, and now you don't even know who you are.


End file.
